David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (53 page)

“Well,” he said quietly, “you got the paintings here, all right.”

He waited for a reply. There was no reply. He turned slowly to look at Mooney, who stood facing the wall on the other side of the room. Then there was no sound in the room, not even the sound of breathing.

They were both looking at the wall and what was on the wall.

It was a rather large water color on thick board paper. It was the only painting on any of the walls. The dominant color was the yellow-gray background for the greenish-gray of her face and the cocoa-gray-yellow of her hair. It was just the head and neck and shoulders against the background. The head was slightly lowered and there wasn’t much expression on the face and it was merely the portrait of a very thin girl with long hair, not much to look at, really. But she was alive there on the wall. She seemed to be living and breathing and fully conscious of what she was and who she was. She was Catherine Kerrigan.

“I didn’t want you to see it,” Mooney said. “I tried to tell you.”

Kerrigan was moving backward. He kept moving backward until he bumped into the large vase. He reached back and gripped the edge of the vase. His fingers merged with the glazed stone and then his arms felt like stone and he wondered if his entire body were turning to stone. He was looking at his sister and telling himself she couldn’t be dead.

He heard Mooney saying, “Damn it, I tried to tell you. I didn’t want you to come here.”

“It’s all right,” he said. But the words meant nothing.

He looked at her up there on the wall and without sound said, Catherine, Catherine.

And then, without seeing Mooney’s face, he was hit by something coming out of Mooney’s eyes. He looked at Mooney and knew the way it was, the way it must have been for a long time, and the way it would always be. The knowledge of it came to him very slowly, going into him very deep and pushing aside all the shock and astonishment, causing him to understand fully that Mooney had worshiped her and would go on worshiping her.

For some moments he stood looking at Mooney and they were having a silent conversation. They were talking about her, telling each other what a special item she’d been, and all the kindness and sweetness of her nature, the gentle manner and the sincerity. In the quiet of the room she gazed down at them and it seemed she joined them in their soundless discussion, saying, Don’t give me such a build-up, I didn’t really amount to much, just another Vernon girl with very little brains and no looks at all.

Mooney spoke aloud. “She was quality. The real quality.”

Suddenly Kerrigan felt very tired. He looked around for a place to sit. Finally he sat down on the mattress on the floor. He folded his hands around his bent knees and lowered his head and his eyes were half closed.

He heard Mooney saying, “She never knew how I felt about her. I’m not sure if I can tell it to you now.”

“I think I know already.”

“No, you don’t,” Mooney said. “She was your sister, and it’s an entirely different feeling. You never had to fight against something inside, something that said you were male and she was female. I wanted her so much that I used to steal from drugstores to poison myself so I’d get an upset stomach and have the cramps to think about.”

Kerrigan looked at him.

“Why didn’t you let her know?”

“I couldn’t. She’d have felt sorry for me. She might have done something that she didn’t want to do. Just to make things easier for me. It would have been an act of charity. You see, if I thought she went for me, I’d have asked her to marry me.”

“You should have told her.”

Mooney sighed slowly. He looked at the floor. He said, “She was clean. And I’m a dirty man. It’s the kind of dirt that don’t wash
off. It’s in too deep. Too many memories of dirty places and dirty women.”

“You’re not so dirty. And I think you should have told her.”

“Well maybe I wasn’t man enough.” Mooney turned and looked up at the picture on the wall.

Kerrigan looked at Mooney and felt very sorry for him and couldn’t say anything.

“Not man enough,” Mooney said. “Just a specialist in the art of wasting time and lousing things up. There was a time the critics had me ranked with the important names in water color. They said I’d soon be pushing
Marin for the number-one spot on the list. Today I’m pushing the sale of window signs for butcher stores and tailor shops. My weekly income, according to latest reports, is anywhere from twelve to fifteen dollars. If the Treasury Department is interested, the current bankroll is a dollar and sixty-seven cents.”

Mooney was telling it to the dead girl, speaking in a conversational tone, as though he thought she could actually hear what he was saying.

“Comes a time,” he told the painted face on the wall, “when the battery runs down, the stamina gives out, and a man just don’t care any more. That happened long ago with this fine citizen. Not a damn thing I could have done for you, except lean on your shoulder and weigh you down. I’m a great leaner, one of the finest. I have a remarkable talent for making people tired.”

Kerrigan figured it was time for him to say something. “You have a pretty fair talent for painting pictures.” He gazed at the portrait on the wall.

“Thank you,” Mooney said quietly and formally, as though he were addressing an art critic. Then his tone became technical. “There was no live model. This work was painted from memory. There were more than thirty preliminary sketches. The portrait took three months to complete, and this is the first time it’s been exhibited.”

Kerrigan nodded, although he was scarcely listening. He went on looking at the painted face that was framed there on the wall and gradually it became a living face as the gears of time shifted into reverse, taking him backward five years to a summer
night when he stood with Catherine on the corner of Second and Vernon. He’d been walking up Second Street and he’d seen her leaning against the lamppost on the corner. Coming closer, he’d noticed that she was breathing heavily, as though she’d been running. He said, “What’s wrong?” and for some moments she didn’t answer, and then she smiled and shrugged and said, “It’s really nothing.” But he knew the smile was forced, and the shrug was an effort to hide something.

He put his hands on Catherine’s shoulders. He said quietly, “Come on, tell me.”

She tried to hold the smile, tried to shrug again. But somehow she couldn’t manage it. Her lips quivered. Her pale face became paler. All at once she gripped his arms, as though to keep herself from falling, and she said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Catherine.” His voice was gentle. “Tell me what happened.”

She hesitated. Then, whatever the issue was, she made an attempt to evade it. She said, “You look so tired and worn out. Work hard today?”

“Overtime,” he replied. “They were short of men.” In the glow of the street lamp he saw the delicate line of her features, the fragility of her body. She always wore low-heeled shoes and loose-waisted schoolgirl dresses and looked much younger than eighteen. The dress was cotton, plain drab gray, and it needed sewing here and there. But it was clean. She wouldn’t wear anything that wasn’t clean.

She was smiling again and saying, “You really look knocked out. Let’s go somewhere and sit down.”

She was always saying, “Let’s go somewhere,” as if there were anywhere to go except the candy store, which had a small fountain and a few battered stools.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll treat you to a soda.”

She took his hand. He sensed she was anxious to get off the corner. They walked two blocks to the little candy store and went in and sat down at the fountain. She asked him what he wanted and he said, “Orange,” and she put a dime on the counter and ordered two bottles of orange pop.

He took a few long gulps and his bottle was empty. She sipped hers from a straw. He watched her as she sat there taking
tiny sips and enjoying the flavor of the soda. There was a look of pleasure on her face and he thought, It takes so little to please her.

Suddenly he got off the stool and went to the magazine rack. She liked movie magazines and he stood there checking them to see if there was one that she hadn’t read yet. He was reaching for a magazine when the door opened and three young men came into the candy store. They sort of barged in, and he turned and looked at them. They were wearing torn shirts and ragged trousers and battered shoes. It was hard to tell which one of them was the ugliest, which face was most misshapen.

The three of them were winking at each other as they moved toward Catherine. She was still sipping the soda and hadn’t yet seen them. Kerrigan was waiting to see what they’d do. He saw the shortest one, who looked like a middleweight, slide onto the seat next to Catherine. The middleweight grinned at her and said, “Well, whaddya know? We meet again.”

Catherine was trembling slightly. Kerrigan had a fairly adequate notion as to why she’d been out of breath when he’d met her on the corner.

The middleweight went on grinning at her. The other two were snickering. One of them was scar-faced and the other featured a yellowish complexion and crooked buck teeth that prevented him from closing his mouth. Scarface sat down so that Catherine was hemmed in between him and the middleweight. Then Scarface said something in low tones that Kerrigan couldn’t hear, and Catherine winced. She turned her head to see Kerrigan standing there at the magazine rack. He gave her a reassuring nod, as though to say, Don’t worry, I’m still here, I just want to see how far they’ll take it.

The middleweight widened the grin. It became a grimace as he said to Catherine, “Why’d you run away?”

Catherine didn’t answer. The aged candy-store proprietor was standing behind the counter and scowling at the three young men and saying, “Well? Well?”

“Well what?” Scarface said.

“This is a store. Whatcha wanna buy?”

“We ain’t in no hurry,” the middleweight said. He turned to Catherine. “
I like to take my time. It makes things more interesting.” He edged closer to her.

“Please go away,” Catherine said.

The proprietor was pointing to a sign on the wall behind the counter. “You read English?” he demanded of the three young men. “It says, ‘No Loafing.’ ”

“We’re not loafing,” the middleweight said mildly. “We’re here to keep a date, that’s all.”

Catherine started to get up from the stool. But she was crowded from all sides and they wouldn’t give her room. Kerrigan didn’t move. He told himself he would wait until one of them put a hand on her.

The proprietor took another deep breath. “This is a store,” he repeated. “If you’re not here to buy something, get out.”

“All right, Pop.” The middleweight reached into his pocket and took out a dollar bill. “Three root-beer floats.” He made a casual reach for the bottle in Catherine’s trembling hand. He took the bottle away from her and said to the proprietor, “Make it four.”

Catherine looked at the middleweight. She wasn’t trembling now. There was just the slightest trace of a smile on her lips. It was a kind smile, something pitying in it. She said very softly, “I’m sorry I ran away from you and your friends. But you were talking sort of rough, and then when you came toward me—”

“I wasn’t gonna hurt ya,” the middleweight said. He was frowning just a little; he seemed uncertain of what to say next. He aimed the frown at Scarface and Bucktooth, as though blaming them for something. Catherine went on smiling at the middleweight. Gradually his frown faded. “Damn, I shoulda known how it was from the way you walked. You didn’t swing it like them teasers do.”

Catherine grinned. She looked down at her skinny body. She gave a little shrug and said, “I got nothing to swing.”

The middleweight laughed, and the other two joined in. Kerrigan told himself to relax. It was all right now. He saw Bucktooth sitting down beside Scarface and the proprietor placing four root-beer floats on the counter and he heard the middleweight saying, “Hey, look, my name is Mickey. And that’s Pete. And that’s Wally.”

“
I’m Catherine,” she said. She turned and beckoned to Kerrigan, and he came forward. “This is Bill,” she said. “My brother.”

“Hi,” the middleweight said. He told the proprietor to mix another root-beer float.

Kerrigan wasn’t thirsty now, but he decided to drink the float anyway. He thanked the middleweight and saw the pleased smile on Catherine’s face. She was happy because everyone was friendly.

He sipped the root-beer float and listened to the soft voice of Catherine as she chatted with the three young hoodlums. Her voice was like a soothing touch. He looked at the face of his sister and saw the gentle radiance in her eyes.

Then time shifted gears again and it was now, it was Mooney’s room again. He was sitting there on the mattress on the floor and staring up at the portrait on the wall.

“You look knocked out,” Mooney said. “Why don’t you roll over and go to sleep?”

He gazed dully at Mooney. “Gotta be up early. There’s no alarm clock.”

“That’s all right. I’ll wake you. Got a watch?”

Kerrigan was already prone on the mattress and his eyes were closed as he took out the pocket watch and handed it to Mooney. “Get me up at six-thirty,” he whispered, and while sleep closed in on his brain he wondered what Mooney would be doing awake at that time. But before he could put the question into words, he was asleep.

A
T TEN
in the morning the sun was like a big muzzle shooting liquid fire onto the river. Near the docks the big ships glimmered in the sticky heat. On the piers the stevedores were stripped bare to the waist, and some of them had rags tied around their foreheads to keep the perspiration from running into their eyes.

Alongside Pier 17 there was a freighter that had just come in from the West Indies with a cargo of pineapples, and the dock foremen were feverishly bawling orders, spurring the stevedores to work faster. There were some wholesale fruit merchants scurrying around, screaming that pineapples were rotting on the deck, melting away in the heat, while these goddamn loafers took their time and carried the crates as though they had lead in their pants.

Kerrigan and two other workers were struggling with a six-hundred-pound crate when a little man wearing a straw hat came up and shrieked, “Lift it! For God’s sake, lift it!”

They were trying to lift the crate onto a wheeled platform. But on this side of the pier there was a traffic problem. They were surrounded by a jam-up of crates and bales and huge boxes and they had insufficient space to get leverage.

Stooped over, with the crate leaning against their backs, the two stevedores were panting and grimacing while Kerrigan knelt on the planks, his hands under the edge of the crate, trying to coax it onto the platform.

“You morons!” the little man screeched. “That ain’t the way to do it.”

The edge of the crate came onto the platform. The wheels of the platform moved just a little and the crate slipped off. Kerrigan’s hands were under the crate and he pulled them away just in time.

“I told you,” the little man yelled. “You see?”

One of the stevedores looked at the little man. Then he looked at Kerrigan and said, “All right, Bill. Let’s try it again.”

The other stevedore was arching his back and rubbing his spine and saying, “We need more room here.”

The little man shouted, “You need more brains, that’s what you need.”

Kerrigan wiped sweat from his face. He took his position at the side of the crate, pushed a smaller box against the platform to keep it from rolling, and said to the stevedores, “Ready now?”

“All set.”

“Heave,” Kerrigan grunted, and the men braced their backs under the weight of the crate, while Kerrigan strained to work it onto the platform. Again he managed to lift it over the edge, but just then a sliver of rusty metal went stabbing into his fingernail and he lost his hold on the crate. “Goddamnit,” he muttered as the crate fell off the platform and slammed onto the planks of the pier. He stood up and put the injured finger in his mouth and sucked at the blood.

“Go in deep?” one of the stevedores said.

“It’s all right.” Kerrigan winced and took his finger out of his mouth and looked at the torn cuticle. He said, “I guess it’s all right.”

“It don’t look good, Bill. You better have it bandaged.”

“The hell with it,” Kerrigan said.

The little man was hopping up and down and shouting, “What are you standing around for? What about the pineapples? Look at the pineapples. They’re rotting away in the sun.” He beckoned to a dock foreman on the other side of the pier. “Hey, Ruttman. Come here, I want you to see this.”

The dock foreman made his way through a gap in the pile-up of pineapple crates. He was a very big man in his late thirties. His head was partially bald and he had a flattened nose and thick scarred lips and a lot of chin and jaw. His arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder and the hair on his chest was like a screen of foliage in front of the large tattoo, the purple-brown-black head of an African water buffalo.

As Ruttman approached, the little man continued to hop up and down, yelling, “What kind of men you got working here? Take a look at this situation.”

“Easy, Johnny, easy.” Ruttman had a deep, furry voice. He came up to the crate, glanced at the wheeled platform, and then looked at the three stevedores. He said, “What goes on here?”

“We just can’t handle it,” one of them said. “We ain’t got enough space to work in.”

“You’re a liar,” the little man shrieked. “There’s plenty of space. You’re just goofing, that’s all, you’re trying to kill time.”

Ruttman told the little man to go away. The little man started to yelp, claiming that he had a lot of money invested in these pineapples and he’d be damned if he was going to let them get spoiled. Ruttman said the pineapples wouldn’t get spoiled and it would help matters if the little man went away. The little man folded his arms and shouted he was going to stay right here. Ruttman sighed wearily and took a slow step toward the little man. The little man scampered away.

The three stevedores moved toward the crate and Ruttman shook his head, waving them back and saying, “This ain’t no good. We gotta do it another way.” He looked at Kerrigan. “Bring me a chain and a crowbar.”

Kerrigan turned and walked down along the length of the pier, wiping sweat from his face. In the tool shed he found a roll of adhesive tape, and he cut off a strip and slipped it around his torn finger. He came out of the shed carrying the heavy chain and the crowbar. He took a few steps and stopped short and the crowbar fell out of his hand, the chain slipped away from his fingers. He stood motionless, staring at Loretta Channing.

She was sitting at the wheel of the MG. The car was parked on the pier. A few men wearing Panama hats and tropical-weave suits were leaning against the car and it was evident she’d got special permission to come onto the pier.

As Kerrigan stood there, unable to breathe, Loretta waved to him. He could feel the heavy awkwardness of the moment as the men in Panama hats turned to look at him, their faces showing vaguely puzzled smiles.

He told himself to pick up the chain and crowbar and get out of here. But as he reached down, he stiffened again. He was staring at an object in Loretta’s hands. It was a small camera. She had it focused on him.

He straightened, breathing air that seemed to burn. His arms were away from his sides, his hands were clenched, and he didn’t realize he was showing his teeth.

The camera made a clicking sound. It was a very small noise, but
in his brain it was amplified. It cracked like a lash hitting him in the face.

He moved toward the MG. He walked very slowly. His head jutted like an aimed weapon. A fruit clerk wearing an apron came into his path and he pushed the man aside, not hearing the whine of protest. The men in Panama hats were moving uneasily as they detected the menace in his approach. Instinctively they got out of his way. But Loretta didn’t move. Loretta sat there at the wheel, smiling at him, waiting for him, the camera held loosely in her hand.

He came up to the door of the MG and pointed to the camera and said, “Give it to me.”

Loretta widened her eyes in mock surprise. “You want it for a gift?”

“All I want is the film.”

The mockery remained on her face. “What will you do with it?”

“I’d like to shove it down your throat.”

The men in Panama hats were swallowing hard and looking at each other. One of them braced himself and tapped Kerrigan on the shoulder and murmured, “No need to take offense, fellow. All the lady did was take your picture.”

“You keep out of it,” Kerrigan said.

The man said, “Now look here, I’m one of the owners of this pier.”

Ignoring the man, Kerrigan reached out toward the camera. But Loretta was faster. She opened the panel of the glove compartment, slid the camera in, and closed the panel.

Kerrigan gripped the door, leaned across the steering wheel, and moved his hand toward the glove compartment. The pier owner grabbed his arm and said, “Just a moment here. Just a moment.”

In the next instant the Panama hat was falling off the pier owner’s head. He was shoved backward, with Kerrigan’s flat hand covering his face. He tripped over a loose plank and sat down very hard and stared up at Kerrigan with his mouth opened wide.

Loretta hadn’t moved. She was smiling at Kerrigan and saying, “I can’t understand why you’re so upset. All I did was take your picture.”

His voice was low and even but it whipped at her. “You want it for a souvenir. You’ll show it to your uptown friends. Picture of a man, stripped almost naked, like something on exhibit in a cage.”

Again he reached for the glove compartment. Loretta sat there quietly, making no move to stop him as his finger found the chromium button. He pressed the button, the panel swung open, and he groped for the camera. His hand closed on it and he pulled it out and at that moment he felt the iron pressure coming down on his arm, gripping him above the elbow and causing him to blink.

He turned his head and saw the face of Ruttman.

“Easy, bud,” the dock foreman murmured. “Easy now.”

“Let go.” He tried to jerk his arm away, but Ruttman held him there.

The pier owner, still hatless, had come forward and was saying to Ruttman, “Throw this man off the dock. Give him his pay and get him out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Ruttman said. He took a deep breath that was like a sigh. “All right, bud. Let’s go.”

Kerrigan didn’t move. He was looking at the faces of the men with the Panama hats. They were smiling at him; they felt safe now. They saw him taken in charge by a larger man, a stronger man, a man who was obviously capable of handling him.

“I said let’s go.” Ruttman’s tone was louder.

But he didn’t hear it. He was staring at the other faces, the faces of the stevedores who’d left the crates and were moving in to see what would happen. Ruttman was the undisputed boss of Pier 17 and there were scores of dock-wallopers who’d tried their best to disprove it, only to get their teeth knocked out, their noses caved in, their jaws broken. All along the docks of Wharf Street the opinion was unanimous: It never paid to trifle with Ruttman.

Kerrigan looked at the face of Ruttman and saw the strength, the quiet confidence, saw the warning that was almost friendly. Ruttman’s eyes seemed to be saying, Don’t force me into it, I really don’t want to hurt you.

And then, as caution was mixed with the reasonable knowledge that he had no complaint against Ruttman, he turned his head,
a gesture of submittal. In that instant he saw Loretta smiling at him, a mocking smile.

He let the camera fall way from his fingers, and the back of his hand cracked across her mouth.

It was a hard blow and it sent her head twisting all the way to the side. But he didn’t have time to see what damage he had done, because Ruttman was already hitting him.

Ruttman was smashing him with a straight right that caught him under the eye. He fell back with his arms wide, his feet off the ground. He collided with a crate, bounced away, started to fall, made up his mind he wouldn’t fall, and lunged at Ruttman with his fists flailing.

He found Ruttman’s head with his right hand, staggered Ruttman with another blow to the temple, then came in close and ripped both hands to the body. He heard Ruttman grunting and again he punched to the body, and Ruttman started to double up, falling forward, trying to clinch.

Kerrigan stepped back and hooked a short left to Ruttman’s jaw, followed it with another left to the side of the head, stepping back again and chopping with the right and missing, and then taking a terrible, thundering blow from Ruttman’s right hand. It was a roundhouse smash, a punch that started wide, came in short, exploded on his jaw, and knocked him down.

“That winds it up,” someone said.

Kerrigan’s eyes were closed and he was flat on his back. There was no pain, only the feeling of wanting to stay here and keep sinking into the darkness.

But then he heard a voice saying, “Finished?”

He opened his eyes and looked up and saw Ruttman. He grinned and said, “Not yet.”

Ruttman sighed reluctantly and stepped back, giving him a chance to get up. He got up slowly, now feeling the pain, the grogginess, and it was as though his jaw were bolted to his skull and a wrench were tightening the bolt.

He saw Ruttman walking in to measure him, the right hand taking aim. In Ruttman’s eyes there was no satisfaction. Ruttman came in close, feinted with the left, and threw the right.

Kerrigan moved his head, got away from the big fist, blocked a left that tried to find his ribs, blocked the right coming again toward his jaw, then side-stepped going away from another right.
Ruttman grunted, lunged, missed with both hands, lunged again, and missed again as Kerrigan crouched going backward, weaving and dodging, ducking and coming up and then moving away from where Ruttman wanted him to be.

Ruttman’s expression had changed. Now his eyes showed impatience. He took a deep breath and charged at Kerrigan, putting everything he had in an overhand right that whizzed toward Kerrigan’s head. The fist hit empty air and nothing else. Ruttman lost his balance and stumbled and fell to one knee.

Someone laughed.

Ruttman came up fast. He rushed again, his left arm swinging hard. Kerrigan went inside the hook, shot a short right to Ruttman’s belly, used the right again, ripping it to the ribs. Ruttman lowered his hands to protect his midsection, and Kerrigan took a backward step, took aim, and hauled off and smashed a straight right hand to the chin.

He saw Ruttman staggering sideways, the thick arms flailing. The dock foreman struggled to keep his balance, managed to hold on and stay on his feet, moving unsteadily, eyes dull, then bracing himself and coming in again.

Kerrigan was ready. He jabbed with his left, jabbed again and again, finding Ruttman’s nose and mouth. Then another vicious jab that had all his strength behind it, his fist twisting as it landed against Ruttman’s brow. He saw the flaring red streak above Ruttman’s eye, and he sent another left to the same place, that widened the cut.

The dock workers were silent, staring in disbelief as they saw Ruttman taking it and falling backward and still taking it. They were watching the downfall of a man they believed to be invincible. And they didn’t like it.

Kerrigan put another left against Ruttman’s bad eye. Ruttman let out a groan of pain, tried to cover up, and Kerrigan, working very fast now, hooked a left to the head, hooked again to the body, chopped with the right and brought more blood and a couple of teeth from Ruttman’s mouth.